


Show 'Em Who's Boss

by Spitshine



Series: Sure As Hell Earned It [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Affectionate Use of Homophobic Slurs, Anal Sex, Blood, Both Materially and Culturally, Cockwarming, Come play, Crying During Sex, Daddy Kink, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dehumanization, Derek Hale's Fragile Masculinity, Dirty Talk, Dom Derek, Dom/sub, Gangbang, Gratuitous Use of the Word “Bitch”, Knotting, M/M, Marking, Objectification, Off Screen Negotiation, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, So Much Leather, Stiles Has a PhD in Cocksucking, Sub Stiles, Under Table Blowjobs, boys crying, knotting that hurts, like really, piss drinking, safe-ish sex, sloppy sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-09
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-05 15:19:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5380049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spitshine/pseuds/Spitshine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Derek proves his worth as an alpha by offering Stiles up for a gangbang. That's it. That's the plot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Visiting Pack

**Author's Note:**

  * For [evil_kneazle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/evil_kneazle/gifts).



> To the best of my knowledge, leather clubs do not hand out pins for gangbangs like fucking merit badges, but who knows? Maybe Old Guard wolves are a little more achievement-focused. The ritual described herein, however, is absolutely the traditional method of giving someone a new pin.
> 
> I have too many thoughts, Gorean slave position edition: Gorean philosophy makes me kiiinda uncomfortable but this way you can google what the fuck I'm talking about.

Stiles is just floating down from a seriously good high, bruised and buoyant, with Derek locked tight inside him, clinging to his back as the alpha licks the sluggishly bleeding bite marks spattered across the boy's shoulders.

And sweet talk. That's definitely a thing that's happening. Don't get it twisted, Stiles loves that Derek goes hard with him—loves just _how_ hard his daddy will go—but he loves this, too. He'd probably get bored if it was all the time, but just like this, these private moments after Derek wrecks him, when Derek lets him see a softer, more vulnerable side...

Yeah. That's pretty nice.

Stiles stretches languidly, arches his back to rub his ass against Derek's furry stomach and thighs, reaches behind himself to pet clumsily at Derek's head. He twists his neck, tilts his face up for a sweet kiss. Derek keeps talking, mumbling into their joined lips, “Stiles, baby boy, so good for me, you look so beautiful when you're taking it, taking me, baby, baby.”

Peter.

Peter is talking.

Peter is in the loft, and he is talking, and he is saying, “Oh my,” in the smuggest, smarmiest tone Stiles has ever heard, and it is totally wrecking his blissed out lack of awareness and his chances at a second (or even third) orgasm. Which, to be fair, is probably how he missed the screech of the loft door sliding open in the first place.

Though Derek growling a warning, real close so he can feel it rumble against his back, is kinda bringing it all right back.

“What are you doing here?” Derek spits into his shoulder.

“Well, nephew, there's a new pack in town come to see you. They've heard of your little band of misfits and their surprising strength, and they would like to have a formal meeting, discuss a possible alliance.”

Peter steps to the side, and behind him Stiles can see three incredibly fit men dressed like they just stepped off their motorcycles. All three, all in black. Jeans, chaps, leather jackets covered in colorful pins. The one in front—he looks the oldest—is seriously working a salt-and-pepper beard of a style he once saw labeled as “The Comic-Con” on a beard field guide poster, but privately, Stiles has always called it “The Daddy.” Bushy mustache blending into the thick hair covering his chin, but buzzed down to stubble everywhere else.

Stiles swallows. Rocks his hips discretely against Derek's.

“We had heard you're a tough alpha. Won't back down, show mercy, or talk shit,” Beard says. His eyes flick down to Stiles' obviously human, obviously pleasure-drunk body. “Heard you whupped a passel of whiny teenagers into shape.”

“Twenty minutes,” Derek growls. Stiles can see on Peter's face that Derek's eyes are bleeding alpha red, but then Derek rolls them, knot tugging sharp and painful at Stiles' taut rim, and scrapes a clawed hand down Stiles' side, crams his knot that much further into Stiles, completely bludgeoning Stiles' prostate, and Stiles forgets all about the other wolves in the room.

*

Thirty minutes later, Stiles limps down the stairs, feeling ridiculous. He's never hated how loud his steps are on the metal more than right now, bruised and freshly bleeding and dressed in nothing more than a few leather straps around his ribs and a pair of _exceedingly_ short black leather shorts held together with hope and a long, long zipper running from the top of his ass, down through his legs, and up over his dick. Derek had put him in a jock and buttplug (“These're hell to wash, dirty bitch.”) before throwing the clothing, for lack of a better word, at his head and going to make nice.

 _He_ didn't clatter down the noisy steps, though. Oh no. He did a fancy backflip and landed on little cat feet.

Peter has left but three more wolves have arrived, denim and leather to match. One of them looks not much older than Stiles, in snug dark-blue jeans, a leather vest with no fastenings, and boots. The rest of them, though, they're—Stiles gulps—no other word for it—daddy as fuck.

They look hungry. All seven of them.

Derek snaps his fingers and Stiles kneels at his feet, eyes sliding shut as he nuzzles Derek's knee. It's a lot. Their stares, Derek's terse instruction before he lept downstairs. He knows the wolves heard it.

Derek backhands him, almost lazily, and Stiles looks up. Derek's lip is lifted in a dangerous snarl. Oh, right. He straightens, falling into a motionless nadu for Operation Look Tough. He is never gonna let it slip that he called it that.

Well, at least not until he needs a nice, brutal beating.

Derek jerks his chin toward the most heavily leathered wolf. Stiles takes a deep breath. He can do this. He's gonna be so good. He crawls over to the alpha. Kneels pretty.

He doesn't want to say the line he's been given, he—closes his eyes and does it. It's thrilling, to be debased like this for his alpha, for Derek to put him so firmly in his place, so close to the knife-edge of his comfort, but it's—he's on the verge of falling off.

“Please, sir, can I suck your cock?”

He looks up through his lashes at the smirking alpha, bites his lip as Derek growls, “Don't come in its ass.” He hums happily. His daddy is so _fierce_.

“Guess I could let you,” the alpha drawls, “if you don't use your hands.”

Stiles nods, waits a beat. The alpha doesn't move to unzip his jeans. Stiles swallows, licks his lips, and leans in. It takes a little doing with his lips and tongue to pinch the zipperpull between his teeth, but he gets it quickly. The alpha smells like bike exhaust and road dirt. He's not wearing underwear. His dick is soft, but fattening quickly, tastes like spit and jizz already, like he fucked somebody's throat right before he came here.

Stiles feels replaceable. Like he could be switched out for any greedy faggot, like he's a dime a dozen.

He groans and scooches closer, takes the whole thing in his mouth, swirling his tongue as it hardens in his mouth.

“Dumb bitch,” the alpha scoffs. Stiles doesn't know his name. “Think we can't see what a hungry slut you are if you close your eyes?” He puts one hand on the back of Stiles' head, heavy, and thrusts up.

Stiles can't breathe but he doesn't gag, doesn't splutter when the thick cock pulls smoothly out of his throat. He's a good boy. He's a—

“Fucktoy. Made for it. Bet you're always gagging for it, couldn't get enough cock if you worked in a cathouse.” Stiles feels Derek's red eyes glaring bloody murder at the other alpha, and the man changes tacks. “Fucking take it, faggot.”

Stiles does more than take it. He starts tracing “I'll show you who's the faggot” in cursive with the tip of his tongue, but he only gets halfway through before the alpha grabs his ears, twisting the sensitive cartilage as he fucks into Stiles hard, only pulling out a few inches before ramming back down Stiles' throat with each thrust.

He yanks Stiles off by the ears to shoot directly into Stiles' mouth. That's good. Derek will be happy the visiting alpha didn't last particularly long. He leaves his mouth open and stares up at the alpha for direction as the wolf tucks himself into his jeans. “Pretty well-trained cocksucker you got here, Hale,” the alpha chuckles. “You hungry, bitch? Swallow. Filthy slut.” He cuffs Stiles on the side of the head to send him on his way.

Next in the circle is the young looking one. He's already hard; Stiles can smell his precome through his thick new jeans.

“Please, sir, can I suck your cock?”

Stiles knows how he looks. Derek's shown him pictures. He's kinda used to it, and definitely fond of it—the come smeared, red-mouthed look. His voice sounds as used as he feels.

The beta, on the other hand, does not look like he's used to it. Beside him, the alpha laughs. “Kid hardly ever gets a chance to get his dick wet.” The young man nods slowly, looking dazed, and Stiles moves to his zipper.

“No, wait,” a new voice cuts in. “He needs his pin.”

“First gangbang little Col' ain't starrin' in.”

“Yer right,” the alpha grunts. “Bitch, get him hard but don't take him out.” Stiles doesn't think it would be appreciated for him to point out the boner that's clearly visible through the denim, so he just gets his mouth on the little damp spot. It's salty, with a little of that sweet clean cotton taste, and he sucks on it hard. The bulge pulses larger, slips down the man's leg and out of Stiles' mouth. Apparently he wasn't hard after all.

Well, damn.

The kid—Colin—gets bigger and bigger as Stiles nuzzles at him through the fabric, takes big obvious inhales like always drives Derek crazy, laps and sucks as best he can until the denim is soaked, until the thick line of his erection reaches halfway down his thigh.

One of the wolves who had come in with the alpha originally, a stout guy with uniformly short stubble on his head and face, swaggers over and smacks Stiles out of the way. “Here ya go, kid.” Even considering the guy's barrel chest, his voice is surprisingly deep. Stiles gives a little shiver and props himself up on his elbows to watch.

The guy, probably the second, unzips the kid's jeans and shoves one meaty arm down the leg. His body blocks Stiles' view, but when he pulls away with a laughed, “Get to it,” and a light kick—light for a werewolf in steel-toed boots, anyway—to Stiles' hip, Stiles can see a pin glinting from the twink's jeans, right where his dick ends.

Colin tugs his cock out of his Levis before Stiles gets off the ground, clumsy and eager. He bucks up arrhythmic and uncoordinated, like a virgin. Even Stiles is a little more in control of his faculties on the rare occasion he gets sucked off, and that's just with him and Derek around to judge. Kid really doesn't get his dick wet much.

He only lasts a few minutes, shooting deep down Stiles' throat a split-second before his knot pops, locking him behind the firm press of Stiles' teeth. Stiles' eyes fly open, and the kid looks as surprised as he feels, curling protectively around his hips and thrashing with sensation. He grabs Stiles' neck, running his clawed fingertips up and down the bulge of his own cock as they all wait for it to soften.

His knot doesn't last as long as Derek's, either, which pleases Stiles more than is reasonable outside of a reproductive relationship, but he's big enough Stiles feels pleasantly used even so.

Stiles pops his jaw back into place and swallows against his sore throat before he crawls to the next one in the circle. “Please, sir, can I suck your cock?” His voice is husky and obvious. It turns him on just to to listen to himself.

“Its bitch-cunt still tight, Hale?” His voice isn't as deep as the second's, but it's a melodic rumble that thrums through Stiles even as the implication of the man's words makes him shiver with discomfit and arousal.

“Is for me, Glover.” Stiles can tell just from Derek's voice he's wearing the smile that makes his face look like a knife, but he doesn't turn to look. It's important that he's good, so he just stares up through his eyelashes and arches his back, sticking his ass out far enough he knows Glover can see it over his shoulder. Knows just what he looks like—Derek's shown him pictures of this, too. His own begging. Desperation.

He turns around when Glover makes a curt twisting motion with one finger, presses his face into his forearms and spreads his legs, lifts his hips. The position crushes the metal zipper into his taint, his dick, cold and sharp. A big, rough hand slides up his thigh to cup his ass through the thin leather. A callused finger slides under the hem of the astonishingly short shorts to stroke between his cheeks.

The hand slides further up, grabs the zipperpull and tugs it down slow. The air of the room is cold against Stiles' sweaty skin; he feels it prickle and tells himself it's from the temperature, not the eyes ripping into him. The zipper digs in like ice just behind his balls.

Even with his hard cock still covered, he's more exposed than he's ever been naked, even the time Derek took him to a clearing in the Preserve, blindfolded him and made him strip down, finger himself open, describe in excruciating detail how it felt.

A smack comes down—again, gentle for a werewolf in motorcycle boots—jarring the plug and reddening his ass. He whines, high in his throat, and doesn't say anything. Doesn't break the rules Daddy laid down. Doesn't beg or object, which saves him the trouble of figuring out which he wants to do.

Out of habit, his wrists cross on the floor above his head, ready for whipping. He spreads his knees wide to allow greater access, just like he's been trained. The leather of the harness slides over his nipples, and it suddenly hits him just how hard they are.

He's spanked again, and again. He's gonna bruise.

Derek is gonna be so mad.

The plug is yanked roughly out of him. It's too heavy to clatter; it just thunks dully on the ground by his knees, and then he's full again. It's not a stretch, the wolf isn't that big and Stiles just had Derek's knot in there for the better part of the hour, but he's raw everywhere and he can't help his pained groan or instinctual clench against the intrusion.

“Good bitch,” Glover laughs. “You gonna give me a nice, hot ride, ain'cha? Yeah.” He grunts in self-satisfaction as he grabs Stiles' waist and slams the boy against his own unmoving hips.

He's hard in what remains of his shorts, the rough zipper cutting into his dick through the cotton of the jock. He humps into the friction, and moans loudly.

“Hey, Karl, c'mere, shut him up for me.”

Stiles is yanked up by the hair and his vision is all denim-clad bulge, black chaps filling his nose with the rich scent of sweaty leather. His hands are swatted away and he leans in to get at the—button fly. Oh, fuck, that's hot. His dick throbs painfully in his shorts as he wrestles with the pants, growling a little.

The entire room erupts in laughter. “Little fuckdoll thinks it's tough, huh? Thinks it's bad?” Karl is still chortling at Glover's joke as he finally frees the man's cock and is immediately slammed into from both ends.

He can barely breathe, can't hold himself up but doesn't have to, speared on both ends like a roasting pig. The wolves are a well-oiled machine, drilling in and out and in again in unison but never leaving him empty. They hold his hips and his thighs and the heavy straps of his harness, moving him without hesitation as they hunt down their pleasure inside his body.

“Gonna come for us, faggot?” He doesn't know which one says it, but the angle of the cock in his ass changes; he squeals as his prostate is jackhammered. His climax is forced out of him in a rush like a freight train, running him down and leaving him flattened.

Glover pulls out and leans forward to rut against the small of his back, blunt human teeth closing over the hard muscles of his shoulder and pulling, twisting.

The man comes and comes, drippy-thin and burning hot. It splashes over Stiles' ass, down his sides. Glover rubs it in with one clawed hand while he holds Stiles' hip hard enough to bruise with the other, holds him steady enough that Karl's choking thrusts don't knock him back at all, just make his eyes and nose run, drool dripping down his chin and neck.

Glover shuffles heavily off to the couch, and it's like clockwork after that. Stiles' eyes loll shut, he lets himself be moved, swallows and breathes and tightens when he can. Karl moves to his ass, a new cock in his throat, come spraying over his ass and thighs.

He can't stop the minute spasms of his exhausted muscles and collapses when the coarse hands let go of his hips and the man at his front pulls out to take over at his back. Derek orders him onto the table and he crawls tiredly over to the dining area, clambering discoordinatedly onto the high surface with limp limbs and flopping onto his back, using his own hands as stirrups for his ankles. The table is just the right height, just the right width, for Derek to fuck him comfortably at either end when he drapes himself over it like this.

The wolves still left follow him over to the table, leering. They shove into him without finesse; he just flows into it. His body feels supple, languid. He's been so overstimulated for so long that it's faded into a white noise, wiping out everything else, leaving him humming, floating.

Something warm, wet, drips onto his chest and he blinks up. They're kissing, fangs out, blood raining onto him, onto his harness. He's wet everywhere, lube and come and blood and spit, and then they're both coming on him—in his mouth, on his face, on his crotch and his stomach and chest.

The leather's gonna be hell to clean.

“Alpha Hale.” The twink sounds nervous, breathless. “May I—use your toy? Again?” Stiles tilts his head drunkenly and sees Colin, Colin with the fucking horse dick, fucking into his own hand like he can't hardly stop himself, mouth hanging wide as he stares at Stiles' fucked-out ass.

“Keep your knot to your damn self this time.”

“Yes, sir,” Colin swears reverently as he steps between Stiles' legs.

Stiles knows what he must look like. Open. Waiting.

Swollen.

The wolf pushes in and Stiles wails. He can't stop the noise. It's so much, too much, and that nauseous, overfull feeling he hasn't gotten since Derek first trained him to take a knot washes through him. He breathes heavy and fast, waiting it out, eyes clenched shut, sweat dripping off his forehead.

It takes an eternity for the cock to drive all the way into him. His fingers cramp from holding his ankles so tightly; his abdomen hurts from tensing against the inevitability of his own reaming. There's a grunt above him as the kid bottoms out. He doesn't give Stiles time to adjust, just starts hammering away like a buck rabbit, rapidfire, until tears streak through the spit and jizz drying on Stiles' face.

For all his force, the kid doesn't take much longer this time than he did in round two, and he comes between Stiles' thighs as he sucks a dark bruise high up on Stiles' neck and howls, well before Stiles has a chance to get accustomed to the massive intrusion.

Derek whistles for him before the wolf finishes spraying his load everywhere, and Stiles stumbles over both their feet in his rush to get down and crawl to Derek.

“You done yet? You had enough?”

Stiles shakes his head wildly on his wilting neck.

“You want Daddy's cock, you better get up here and get it.”

Stiles grins and clambers up. Derek's been in his tight jeans this whole time, and suddenly that feels like a terrible shame. He knows how to fix it, though. He has Derek's dick out in no time, lifts up on his worn-out legs—

“Turn around, faggot.” Derek is hissing into his year, continuous low threats. “They're all gonna see how much you need it, how good I give it to you.”

“Th-thank you, alpha,” Stiles gasps as Derek's fingers dig into his bruised hips and thighs, pull him down hard.

“You need my knot? Need me to lock you up tight so you can come on it, your little cunt milking at me while you clench and clench?”

“Yea—yes, sir. Please. Split me open, fill me up. Alpha, alpha, please.” Stiles isn't paying attention to his own words anymore, just needs—he just needs.

“Fucking beg for it, cocksucker. You gonna cry for it? Cry real pretty and I might give it to you.”

That does it.

The thought that he might not cry pretty enough, that he might not get his daddy's knot after everything else, after what he just did for the pack, for his alpha. He cries genuine tears, bawling in fear. Derek's hand smooths over his throat and he slumps back, still sobbing but softer as the soothing effects of Derek's hands soak in and he feels the distinct swell of a knot plumping up in his ass.

Derek comes to Stiles' pained litany of, “Thank you thank you thank you alpha,” which trails off into wet whimpers as Derek's onslaught slows down.

“'Preciate ya letting us use your fucktoy like that, Hale.” The alpha's voice is gruff, begrudging, and loud enough to cut through Stiles' own moans.

“Only thing it's good for.” Derek punctuates this with a sharp jab into Stiles, grinding the heel of his palm against his own knot through the thin wall of Stiles' abdomen. Stiles whimpers, eyes leaking, and arches up into the touch.

“Still. Bitch, get over there.” Stiles flutters his eyes open to watch the twink slinking towards them on hands and knees, flaccid dick hanging out of his unzipped jeans and topless now.

His eyes are lagging a bit from exhaustion but he does his best to track the man's progress across the floor to kneel between Derek's spread legs. “Lick me,” Derek growls, and Stiles feels a nose rubbing his taint, nudging his balls.

Oh, that's filthy. There's a tongue lapping all around his rim where he and Derek are joined, where he's stretched to bursting each time Derek grinds his hips down to gather force for another sharp jerk up into Stiles.

Stiles glances down. Derek's got a fist in the kid's hair, dragging his slack mouth from the base of his dick to his balls and back up. “Open up,” Derek says in that flat, no-if-ands-or-buts alpha voice. “You're gonna teabag him. Get your mouth all over my dirty bitch. You miss being at the center of all this, doncha? Faggot.”

Stiles stops listening after that, because everything is soft warmth and sharp pain, the rumble of Derek's porntastic diatribe and the high keen of his own moans.

He comes when the wolf's hot mouth moves up and over his dick, sucks him down fast and hard, and he cries when it doesn't let up, not even when he's spent and begging for mercy. He's sobbing in a few minutes, long before he's hard again, and sobbing still when he comes for the third time that afternoon, the fourth time for the day.

Finally, the mouth releases him and he collapses back against Derek, against his daddy, all the tension of overstimulation leaving his muscles in a whoosh. He hears the wolves talking. Setting up a formal meeting, maybe? He doesn't both to listen. Derek will fill him in later.

Derek has one hand clamped around his hip, one arm draped over his stomach and across his abdomen. He won't fall over. Derek has him.

Derek's clawed thumb is tracing a pattern on his side, repeating, repeating. ODBOYGOODPUPGO. _Good boy, good pup, good boy_. Derek's teeth close on the back of his neck, fanged but not breaking skin.

Talking is taking a long time. Stiles is sleepy now.


	2. Extremely Formal Werewolf Big Time Serious Meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jumping on the gross-porn-for-Christmas bandwagon, three minutes under the wire!

When Stiles wakes up, it's to the familiar sound of Derek and Peter arguing under their breath.

“Because,” Derek growls, sounding pretty close to ripping Peter's throat right back out, “I don't want you there. I don't want you near my—near Stiles, not for this.”

Peter's voice is smooth and slick, oily in a way that makes Stiles' spine tingle in entirely the wrong way. “Oh, nephew.” Stiles wants to punch the condescension right out of Peter's smarmy face. “You're hardly discreet with your little toy-”

“He's not-”

“He is this weekend. And as I say, it's nothing I haven't heard... or seen... before. It may even cement your authority in their eyes, to see you have a hole reserved solely for your own use. And of course, they'll appreciate your generosity all the more for it.”

Stiles shifts on the futon, squirreling deeper into the crease as he turns onto his side to watch the wolves' standoff. Derek is radiating tension, muscles tight with it, but Peter is the picture of relaxation. Confident in his victory even now.

“And if it's just you at the meeting, nephew, not only will it look like there's no one in your pack you trust as a second, it will just remind them that there are very few Hales actually in the Hale pack—that it's really just a passel of bitten children.”

Derek opens his mouth, snaps it shut, bites out, “Fine,” and turns toward Stiles. “You awake yet?”

“Almost,” Stiles yawns.

“Peter. Out. Now.” Derek stands, hands in his pockets, shoulders back, obviously listening to Peter's retreat for a long minute before joining Stiles on the futon. “Didn't wear you out, did I, baby?”

“No way, Daddy. I was just resting my eyes.”

“Uh-huh.” Derek sounds doubtful, but he leans in to wrap Stiles in his arms, engulf him in kiss after kiss, so Stiles can't really be bothered to keep protesting.

*

Stiles isn't sure why, but he's more nervous for the formal meeting than he was for the... meet and greet? Maybe because he has more time to get worked up over it, maybe because it's finally sunk in how much an alliance would mean for the pack.

Either way, he's nervous, jangly with it, like he drank too much coffee, but he didn't. Didn't have any, actually, because Derek had explained—well, had Peter insinuated and then he freaked out and demanded that Derek tell him everything—but still, Derek had explained what he would need to do, what would be expected, and excusing himself for a bathroom break is just not in the cards.

At least he's naked this time, not in those ridiculous shorts... Derek still owes him a hiding for what he's allowed to happen to the shorts. And isn't _that_ a nice thought.

He hears footsteps outside the door and wraps one arm around Derek's calf, snuggling in for a last moment of closeness before Derek has to switch to alpha mode. Daddy's hand scritches through his hair, just for a second, and then the door opens and it's all business.

“Alpha Gibson.”

“Alpha Hale.”

Stiles can see two pairs of heavy boots tromping through the loft to the long table they'd moved in as a conference table the night before. The other alpha swings into the chair at the opposite end of the table from Derek all casual, feet planted and legs wide.

It's a powerful position, and Stiles assumes it looks equally powerful—though probably less intimidating—to Derek.

“Didn't bring the rest of the pack?”

“We can bring 'em in later, if we need 'em. Like it better this way. Just us and our seconds. Man to man. Alpha to alpha.”

Derek grunts his agreement and nudges Stiles with his foot. It's not a kick, quite, but it's not wasting any time, either.

Stiles gulps and crawls towards the visitor as Peter and Glover take their places beside their respective alphas. It's nothing compared to yesterday, he reminds himself. How many blowjobs has he given in his life, anyway? What's one more, especially for his alpha? For his pack's reputation?

There are voices above him but he can't bring himself to focus on them. His whole awareness is focused on the cold floor under his hands, the lurch in his belly that won't go away, the wide space between Gibson's splayed legs.

He slides his cheek against the alpha's knee, as if he were scent marking, and reminds himself he had this same dick in his mouth not twenty-four hours ago.

The man doesn't stop talking, doesn't acknowledge Stiles' presence in any way, just reaches a hand down to flick open his fly. He's not wearing underwear, and Stiles can smell him even though he's not hard yet—heavy and heady in Stiles' nostrils, a little salty, a little bitter, making his mouth water.

He scoots forward, squarely between the alpha's feet, and leans forward to lap at the base of the man's exposed dick. The familiarity soothes his nerves and it only takes a moment for him to relax into the comforting sensation of a cock racing to hardness in his mouth, pulsing with incoming blood and filling his throat.

Gibson makes no noise, has no response at all, and Stiles takes his silence as a challenge. More than that, as an affront to him, personally, as a cocksucker. He ups the suction, swirls his tongue around the head each time he pulls back, pushes forward until his breathing is blocked by his own nose mashing against the man's pubic bone. He stretches his tongue to grotesque lengths in his determination to lick the taut skin of the wolf's sac, swallows loudly around the head.

Above him, the alpha's words are coming a little slower, breath just barely going ragged. Stiles can't pretend to understand the weird werewolf power games going on between the Hale and Gibson packs, but he's pretty happy to be playing his part in it.

And even more happy to be winning.

The thick vein under his tongue pulses, cock getting that much harder as Gibson's scent changes, deepening just enough to let Stiles know the alpha's on the brink of orgasm. Above his head, he hears “You know we're a bitten pack—hhng—like you, but-”

He fucks his own throat on the thick dick, sucks hard one last time before Gibson starts spurting. He treats himself to a little taste of the man's jizz—he did well, if he does say so himself—as Derek remarks curtly, “We're not all bitten.”

Stiles swallows, massaging Gibson through the last pulses of climax with the undulating muscles of his mouth and throat as the alpha backtracks breathlessly. “No, I know that, ahh, but your new betas-”

“-were bitten, yes.”

Stiles hums with self-satisfaction. Derek has the upper hand now, what with the visiting alpha half-moaning and losing track of his own words, he did that. He did that.

He tightens his lips as he slides off Gibson, swallowing one last time as he quickly does up the man's fly and crawls over to the second.

He bunts Glover's knee with his forehead, signaling his readiness.

Glover's not any gentler than he had been yesterday. Might even be rougher. He grinds Stiles' face against the rough fabric over his crotch, into the zipper. What little air Stiles manages to gulp is thick with the smell of his sweat and precome and Stiles swallows hard against the saliva filling his mouth as Glover yanks his own zipper down with one hand, the other firm on the back of his head.

The second doesn't give Stiles room to work or time to set his own pace. His big hands keep Stiles' head still, blunt fingers scrabbling in the hair that's just shy of being long enough to pull, as he bucks up into Stiles' mouth, ramming against the boy's soft palate.

Stiles doesn't think he's ever felt more like an anonymous hole than he does right in that moment. He moans with it, with the shame, and realizes he's leaking all over his own thigh.

Glover and Peter haven't been talking much, but Stiles can hear the man breathing heavily and smiles to himself as well as he's able. He may not be able to move, or even breathe much, but he can take pride. In his work. In his pack.

The beta comes in a couple fat jets and—before Stiles even has time to swallow—shoves the human off his cock hard enough that he's knocked over, lands hard on his side. A few drops trickle from the corner of his mouth, and he sticks out his tongue to lap them up before pushing back up onto his hands and knees and returning to crawl between his own alpha's knees.

Derek doesn't move when he gets there, doesn't stop talking. Stiles hesitates for just a second before taking Derek's zipper pull between his teeth; he knows better than to use his hands today. He fumbles for a moment but soon his daddy's cock is bare to his eyes, hard and leaking and starting to show the promising red of a knot around the base. He gulps it down, still hungry despite the two loads he's just swallowed, the solid dicking Derek had given him to calm his nerves that morning.

He moans happily, gratefully, and moves to pull back, to start bobbing, but the hand on the back of his neck stops him, traps him with his nose pressed into the thick mat of hair.

Derek's fingers dig in on either side of his neck and he goes limp. Pliant. He wants to be good, to show Daddy what a good cocksucker he can be, but he knows that—sometimes—he needs to follow Derek's idea of good behavior instead of his own. If Derek wants his cock warmed and not sucked, then he'll get it sucked.

He lets his eyes slip closed as his neck lolls. He rests the side of his face against Derek's hard thigh and lets himself relax, tuning out the conversation droning on above him.

It goes on, and on. Long enough that Derek starts to soften inside the seal of his lips—not all the way, but enough. Enough for Derek to flick his ear a half-second before his mouth fills with liquid, salty and acrid and—

_Oh._

He gulps, fast, but not fast enough to keep it all in. He can feel it, smell it, a stray drop rolling down his chin, and he blushes with embarrassment as he swallows again and again. There's a lot, but it doesn't take long—his daddy's always had a strong stream—and as soon as he drinks down the last of it Derek's fattening up in his mouth again, thrusting up once before he lets go of Stiles' neck and lets him get to work.

*

“We did good, Daddy?”

“You did great, baby.”

“One alliance down-”

“Peter. Out. Now.”

**Author's Note:**

> Once the wolves are FIRMLY out of earshot, Derek tells Stiles how smart he is and how good he is at so many non-being-used-like-a-damn-fleshlight skills he has and calls him by his name a whole lot. And endearments. Oh, the sickeningly sweet endearments. When Stiles finally wakes up, it's to that. Well, that and Derek's fingers playing with the jizz leaking out of him.


End file.
